


Come Again

by Jemppu



Series: Honey Mushroom [36]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Art, Culmets - Freeform, Fanart, M/M, Tumblr, honey mushroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23837422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemppu/pseuds/Jemppu
Summary: Part of"Honey Mushroom"series of illustrated Culmets momentslisted here on tumblr.Paul's musings of intimate and distressing nature.With illustration:"Polishing Badges".
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Series: Honey Mushroom [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1080993
Kudos: 10





	Come Again

**Author's Note:**

> The series gets released quite out of order, as inspiration dictates, so I urge you to check out the [series list on tumblr](https://tinyurl.com/honeyshroom) for a better picture of the whole.

##  [ ](https://jmalkki.tumblr.com/post/181695993604/polishing-badges-just-two-officers-of-the-fleet)

## Come Again 

His consciousness wakes to that familiar feeling of comfort, which tells him he’s safe here. Yet, why does it feel like a wholly new sensation? Like a relief from some impending threat he’s just avoided.  
  
Paul’s eyes blink open. He’s still here, lying on Hugh’s lap on the couch in their quarters. Still. But why does his mind want to insist on _“again”_?  
  
He feels the firm chest calmly heave underneath him and the doctor’s strong arms around him. His bare skin against Hugh’s, as the couple bask in a blissful afterglow.

Is this the feeling some describe as _“dying and going to heaven”_?  
  


He can feel a pair of slender fingers strutting up along his back - leaving a pleasantly tickling trail of playful steps in their wake. “Culber to USS Stamets”, a gentle voice resonates through the body pressed against Paul’s ear, “Did you dose off, Honey?”  
  
Paul’s reply of a mildly amused hum comes out muffled, as he lies still, too relaxed to move a muscle. Is that what this is? He wonders. Him just drifting in and out consciousness? It feels different from just usual drowsiness.  
  
“I think we might’ve just screwed off my brain”, he manages through his confusion.  
  
Hugh’s delighted laughter sounds so soothingly homely, anchoring Paul to the authenticity of this moment.  
  
Paul smiles warily in reply, while trying to recall how exactly had they gotten here. One hand resting on Hugh’s hip, his thumb absentmindedly doing his characteristic, affectionate, circular rubbing motions. A reflex basically. But it’s as much movement as he feels he can manage right now.  
  
He is starting to recall. It’s a shipwide evening free from duty. They’re enjoying a New Year’s leave the way they see fit - like most rest of the crew, not counting the minimum spare personnel to keep the ship running on idle, and the couple medics on duty. Taking this rare opportunity to spend some dearly needed downtime together by themselves. As much as the confined spaces of the ship allow seclusion. Which is here, in their Deck 3 burrow.  
  
“Should we just go to bed then?” Hugh asks, stroking Paul’s hair tenderly, straightening out few tangles in progress, “I think we can spare to skip any further _‘midnight kissing’_?” the doctor nudges.  
  
But why can’t Paul recall any initial kissing? Or but faintly perhaps - like a thing from days ago.  
  
The only concrete reminder he has of their play, is this after-sensation lingering in his body still, which - without a memory to attach to it - feels distractingly foreign - like it belongs to someone else, somehow.  
  
Surely their passion hadn’t been that forgettable?  
  
Paul doesn’t respond - not out loud. He just slides his hand along Hugh’s side, across the pleasantly contoured landscape of the man’s body, to firmly caress one particularly blessed parish, which he is privy to know especially sensitive to touch and which will keep Dear Doctor from wanting to move anywhere for a while.  
  
Paul sinks back into his thoughts, Hugh’s pleased exhale fading to the background.  
  
There’s a party in the mess hall, isn’t there? Where most of the crew are waiting to welcome the new year’s arrival. Boozing it up to the rare non-restricted drink rations, dancing, hooking up and being generally merry and gay.  
  
New Year? Quite an arbitrary celebration however. Like such a thing would matter in this part of the galaxy, or out on ‘open waters’ like they currently are, outside of any star system’s jurisdiction. One more trip around the Sun back home matters very little elsewhere, here where things get measured in distances and dates keep changing almost as if erratically, depending on which way and how fast one travels. Here it’s just another “day” - that too a man made concept however, and followed aboard only to comply with Federation standards.  
  
Or is it? Is it another day?  
  
Paul is suddenly overcome with the already impending massive sensation of déjà vu.  
  
“What is it, Mushroom?” the doctor asks, freshly out of his trip from the edge of pleasure, sensing something off about the man spread on top of him, after Paul’s fingers stop their specialist exploration of planet Hugh. The scientist appears eerily quiet, staring into nothing for quite a while, like in a trance.  
  
So, is this seeming somehow different from the way Paul usually gets lost in his thoughts for the doctor too?  
  
Paul snaps out of it and lifts his head to faintly smile at Hugh - to reassure Dear Doctor, that his Mushroom is still with him. As much as that is true.  
  
Paul snuggles his arms tightly around Hugh, deep in the warmth between the man and the couch cushions, as if to make sure his Love feels safe here, despite Paul’s apparent absentmindedness.  
  
Paul rests his head back on Hugh’s chest, closes his eyes and inhales deeply. The man smells nice, that way he always does after a bit of exertion, Paul appreciates, and finds himself grateful for how this is something he can recognize and associate as homely.  
  
He would not mind staying the rest of the night just like this. Well into the next year.  
  
He’s beginning to remember however, how he’s been through this before, many times now. Hasn’t he? So many, that he’s lost count.  
  
He’s starting to recall the times he’s been back here. Not only in space - to this location -, but in time too - to this particular moment, or variations thereof. As fantastical as it rings, Paul is a rare someone, who should really understand such a notion. His recent finds with the mycelial network research so far only supporting the concept.  
  
He remembers returning to the eagerness of stripping that pure white uniform right off the doctor, without care, keen lips and impatient hands all over the man, guided only by the strong primal urge Paul had once upon a time had the audacity to deny he even had in him. Remembering the man responding with equal yearning, maneuvering the uniform off of him with the dexterity of life long practice.  
  
And this had been multiple times by now - sometimes played rough - easily just letting the raw excitement take them over -, other times allowing themselves the time, attempting to savor the moment. Each time feeling equally like it was the first, before Paul would remember.  
  
Just like he remembers now. Or, how he recalls he had once - he hopes only once - been thrust back in the middle of the act - thrown right in the highs of ecstasy, unprepared. Startling to a moment, like suddenly finding himself in midair, struggling against gravity midway through a freefall.  
  
How utterly helpless he had been, unable to control his body’s response to this sudden, unexpected stir - to resist the reaction put in motion before him. Even if pulling right off - which he sensed had startled Hugh as well.  
  
While forced to ride to completion this wave he never sought, it had taken all his concentration to try and focus on where he was, and what was happening to him: that this wasn’t the violation it felt like - that this was him, and this was Hugh, and that some consciousness of his own had started this. Wanted this. He would just have to find that knowledge and adjust.  
  
A sensation so hopelessly disorienting, he thinks it beyond what would ever be possible for anyone to experience under any circumstances previously considered normal, not involving trickery with time or one’s perception of it.  
  
There had been no pleasure to be had from the confusion of such a sudden, effortless, and unearned climax. The only feelings he had been left with then were the helplessness and emptiness of a man used.  
  
The physical bliss had only gradually came to him afterwards, lying there strewn atop the familiar firm chest, heaving underneath him once again. An oddly detached sensation by then however - more intensely so than the one he’s recovering from right now -, and tainted by the ferociousness of the occurrence, which made the whole incident feel like some dauntingly persuasive whispers in his thoughts - his own mind as if an assailant to his body, assuring his victim of the correctness of what had just transpired.  
  
He didn’t want to - tried not to - recognize the homely scent enveloping them right then. Refused to acknowledge the firm arms around him, in fear of ever associating this confusing event to those most precious of comforts.  
  
After such a surreal betrayal of senses, it had been most welcoming relief for the next loop around to be back to the homely, cozy moment of just chilling together, still right here on this very couch. Relaxing in their leisure wear, and enjoying one and other’s company without wish for anything more than the presence of their shared love, while giving into the well earned relaxation from all the stress of their duties.  
  
What ever Hugh was reading then, Paul knew was complete garbage. It was okay to think so: that’s how the doctor himself described his trashy novels, as a way to empty one’s head completely. And Paul too could finally immerse himself to actual reading, after months of staring at nothing but calculations and strings of code. He had a long list of essays and latest mycology studies to catch up on.  
  
Or perhaps there **had** been an eventual playful foot there too, against Paul’s thigh, to suggest a possibility for something more - welcome, but something which he had been hesitant to answer to right then, the prior foreign incident still too fresh in his mind.  
  
What by now feels but a faded memory of a dream long ago dreamt, had in fact taken him few rounds to recover from, to be fully comfortable with such a touch again, Paul recalls.  
  
Maybe it had indeed been but a dream after all. Like all of this. Perhaps like all the other times he remembers too. Those instances when they had been somewhere quite surprising - and admittedly quite exciting -, getting distracted by each other from their intended tasks.  
  
Like, when at the Medbay, setting up these brand new spore drive ports on his arms, for a brief stolen moment before the evening shift had arrived to relief Hugh.  
  
Indeed, occasionally he had been back as they were in the middle of hurriedly moving that task to their quarters to follow up on those distractions. Like they must have done just now, judging from the state in which their clothes lay scattered around the room and by the selection of tools haphazardly laid on the coffee table next to them. Like they ever really had any intention to use those once here on this couch.  
  
Paul regards the augmentations on his forearms.  
  
He’s getting a lot of extra orientation practice to the devices through these repeats however, Paul muses. Would Hugh notice anything? Will Mushroom have hard time explaining to the doctor after all of this, how he’s so well adjusted to these things so soon after installation?  
  
He realizes this right now as he catches himself cursing them, positioning his arms so that the ports wouldn’t chafe against their bare skins. Is it too late to rethink these apparatus?  
  
Paul is sure he can even remember one occasion of ‘waking up’ alone in the engineering. What ever might have gone so differently that time around? Nothing too desirable, that’s certain: Paul know’s Hugh especially hates the gloomy place, and Paul himself respects too keenly the solemnity of a work station to ever allow anything else to transpire there. Paul’s immediate thought is that he must’ve pissed the doctor off somehow. He wishes he remembered how, to avoid doing the same mistake again.  
  
He’ll likely recall it the instant he repeats it.  
  
Paul is suddenly yanked out of his recollections, to a recognition of a shared underlying theme. “It’s love”, he utters, eyes widening, as an unexpected realization hits him, “Love is the answer”.  
  
Solution to a problem he has tried to solve for far too many rounds now: how to get through to Burnham.  
  
“What?” Hugh asks smiling, with a chuckle in his voice. The doctor is clearly amused, the way he often is at Paul’s absentmindedness. For him this is just another one of Paul’s cheesy one-liners, isn’t it?  
  
And Paul lets it be so. He doesn’t expect the doctor to understand. Not after the couple first times he tried to explain this all and got affectionately dismissed for having had _“indulged quite too generously”_ on the currently non-restricted drink rations.  
  
But Paul hasn’t had any. He doesn’t really do that. Not anymore. If he ever had, recreationally anyway. And Hugh should know this. As far as Dear Doctor is concerned they’ve been here together the whole evening in each other’s arms. And as Paul knows: many times over now. Which shouldn’t sound bad at all, when put like that, but it’s not just them. It’s the whole ship, isn’t it?  
  
If his own recollection survives all of this, how will he **ever** explain any of it to Darling?  
  
Paul lifts his head up to meet Hugh’s eyes, “if you could live this day again, would you do anything differently?”  
  
The doctor smiles and runs his fingers through the man’s hair again, as if pushing his luck - it’s something which must carry a certain excitement of a 'forbidden thing’ still, even if Hugh has been quite freely allowed to it when in private. “Not a thing, Honey”, his reply comes without hesitation. Or without thought?  
  
“No, seriously”, Paul insist, “if you’d get to end this year anywhere, anyhow, where would it be?” His head bobs almost comically along his words as he talks with chin resting against the doctor’s chest.  
  
“Honey, it could be here, or anywhere, as long as it was with you”, Hugh assures, squeezing the man tighter against himself, “Just like this”.  
  
“Only me?” Paul asks, hoping _“anywhere”_ doesn’t carry within it a wish for some form of a crowded social gathering.  
  
“Only you, Mushroom”, Hugh assures and caresses the man’s adorably wishful face.  
  
Paul accepts the answer. He could try to make that happen. _“Just like this”_ is how he would love it to end too. And he had let it. Once.  
  
Once he just decided to sit it out, let things play on their own accord without his interference. What the hell made it solely his responsibility to defend this ship anyway? While most rest of the crew went on giddily and with permission ignoring any and all duties.  
  
That time around he had made it a point not to care about any of the outside world that was this ship, but just tend to his Love instead. Till the end.  
  
Sweet as the idea had been, for that one time not to leave in the middle of things, in the end it was too painful to go through it again: to be here in his Love’s embrace trying to act as if everything was fine, but knowing what was coming. Concentration shifting between attending to their pleasure and the apprehension over their oncoming fate. Tense with dreadful anticipation, unable to let himself properly respond to the administered impulses, aware that every sweet touch, every pleased exhale could be their last. Mindful as well, should Hugh sense and misinterpret the interrupted desire as indifference.  
  
Perhaps too - in a comforting bit of some remaining mortal levity - racing to see what or who would come first. Wishing not to leave things unfinished.  
  
Endeavor, which had become wholly irrelevant in the very next moment. In an instant, when all sensations from agony to relief had melted together into one overwhelming impact, too mind-shattering to fully comprehend. To have been in Hugh’s presence to witness the perish had tore him apart like nothing before.  
  
The look of despair and hopelessness on the man’s face etched into Paul’s mind. Only a second - if even that -, but not nearly quick enough. Memory, which now replays like in slow motion in Paul’s head: the man’s face asking Paul all the questions there were to be asked, searching for answers for what had just happened, which Paul could only answer to with equally helpless expressions and sorry tears, knowing his face was revealing of prior cognition, but unable to explain his betrayal of the man’s trust: how this was only one of many such unfortunate endings for them, and how Mushroom had to know if it would’ve been any different this way. He could but hold the man firmly to himself, while apologizing for not having done anything to try and prevent this. Promising Hugh, promising himself he **would**. From there on he would do his damnest not to let it happen again.  
  
Which had now been countless rounds ago, and driving Paul increasingly desperate. Worryingly sedated for the pattern of it too. Had this been going on for hours? Days? Weeks? Months?  
  
He had not allowed himself to be in Hugh’s presence at the end since. He sought to leave and investigate the event as soon as he gained enough apprehension of it.  
  
And just then Paul has it happen: has that once unexpected sense of thread come upon himself again - which now feels almost the norm, thing to be expected. The thread is like the one he just woke up thinking he had avoided. It brings a sudden urge to go check on things. Again  
  
Still, he has some sense of mind to doubt himself too. Even after all of these times. Some still rational part of his skeptical scientific mind asking, if he is just letting his fancy wander too far? Surely all of this is but results of overworking and lack of proper sleep? Or effects of some unusual delirium from the Tardigrade DNA and the mushroom spores he’s subjected himself to in abundance recently. Any of those could be affecting his ability for rational thinking, couldn’t they?  
  
Yes, but no. This is not absentmindedness, Paul decides. Or remembers? This is determination. A clear vision of something only he can see. For what ever reason.  
  
And he thinks he knows how to fix it this time. He’ll have to rely on love.  
  
He pulls his hands off from their blessed sojourns on the man’s body - surprising Hugh -, wiggles himself from the embrace reluctantly, and laboriously lifts himself from atop of the doctor, to get up from the couch without a word, hardly managing a sigh for it by now.  
  
He can feel Hugh’s gaze on himself, even when deliberately avoiding the eye contact. Paul knows it too well without seeing: it’s half amused in a casual state of blissful ignorance, and clearly curious for what Paul is up to now, waiting for him to open his mouth to explain.  
  
Paul doesn’t. Not anymore. He goes on to look for his uniform: the pants, the shirt, the jacket… oh, and the badge of course. Nowhere to be seen. It must have flown off somewhere, as this had been one of those instances where caution had been put aside in favor of undiluted passion, and things ripped off quite precariously.  
  
Hugh’s badge is right there on the white jacket thrown on the bed however - similarly silver as his - it’ll have to do this time. Textbook example of a case of _‘polishing badges’_ , and very much negating the purpose of wearing one altogether, Paul huffs to himself, but suspects few will be in sharp enough condition to notice. Or care.  
  
And then, as he reaches down to borrow the Medic badge, he remembers how this too he had done before, and that it had in fact been the very first thing Cadet Tilly had noticed about him few previous times ago. Of course they would - nose-y one as they are. Though they had not said anything - Paul hadn’t given the kid the chance -, but clearly indicated by a look.  
  
Well, fuck it anyway. He doesn’t have the time to be keeping up appearances for those whose consciousness will most likely reset in the end of this all anyway - like some mindless puppets in Paul’s sorry one-man show they all are.  
  
The doctor is understandably puzzled, still following from the couch this current sudden urge to dress, “Are you going somewhere, Honey?”  
  
And Paul still doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how to, without raising even further suspicions. They are, all aboard this ship, somewhere quite off their usual reality now, but there’s no need to alert those who seem oblivious to it.  
  
“I… I just need to go check on one thing”, he mumbles vaguely, while hurriedly pulling on his clothes. No matter, if the uniform isn’t on perfectly right now.  
  
The hair, which Hugh has messed up again, needs to be put in some order however, Paul realizes, and whips out a comb. Does this need to happen every time? It’s eating up precious time. Could Paul bring himself to not let this happen the next time around? If he can remember. But knows too, that it likely won’t seem relevant in the moment again. It never does.  
  
It’s not like anyone would remember any of this anyway. No-one but him it seems. None of it will matter, if this doesn’t work out.  
  
Still, he has to keep trying. He hasn’t seen anyone else out there who would be fixing this. For what ever reason, he seems to be “the chosen one” for this peculiar task.  
  
Even if this is all just a dream, it’s getting mighty exhausting. Harrowing.  
  
“Mushroom”, Hugh sighs dismayed, “it’s your one evening off. Can’t you try and relax, please”.  
  
Droll. “Oh, how I wish”, Paul scoffs. But this fucking ship doesn’t allow him one moment of peace. It’s like it was planned for this to happen today.  
  
He’s seen these people die too many times now. Not quite like he witnessed Hugh’s death, but agonizing still. Over, and over and over again. And it kills Paul every time too. Inside. No, it’s not just a dream - it’s a wicked nightmare.  
  
Paul pockets the comb and glances at Dear Doctor, who stares back, still confused. Now risen up to sit on the couch.  
  
“Well?”, Hugh finally asks confronting the now dressed up officer, “you really don’t care to share what exactly you are up to?”.  
  
Paul’s brows paint a troubled look over his appreciative smile. He hates keeping secrets from Hugh, and desperately does want to share this all, but knows now it’ll only worry his Love further, and add to both of their troubles.  
  
This time Paul won’t even say he’s off to that party. Hugh will just get suspicious - understandably - and run after him - risk getting in the way of Paul’s plan. He won’t mention he’s going to go see Burnham either. Hugh will likely run after him again, trying to stop him from embarrassing himself in his supposed _‘mushroom high’_.  
  
“It’s okay, Dear”, Paul replies cryptically, in an attempt to ease some of the man’s uncertainty. He bites his lip, turns his gaze reluctantly from the nude beauty, and moves to the door to put on his boots. “If this doesn’t work out either I’ll be right back here in your arms again, like I never left”.  
  
“What?” the worry in Hugh’s voice is starting to have overtones of irritation in it. As would be expected of any, for whom things were at all normal. As they are, Paul’s assurances are clearly only adding to the doctor’s confusion, but Paul can’t find it in himself to anyhow lie to the doctor either - not now, not with his last words to Darling. The scientist’s brows turn fiercer in frustration.  
  
He dearly hopes he can get through to Burnham this time. So he won’t need to go get himself armed, or cram through any more of those fucking tubes some _“Jeff”_ thought an efficient way for the maintenance kind to crawl about ship structures. All to protect his Engine room - to protect this whole damn ship - like he’s had to do these few last times over. He’s aware how the threat keeps getting ever closer to the home base on each loop.  
  
“I’m betting on this to work though. It must”, he adds quietly to himself, in a more hopeful tone, smiling to his confused Darling from the doorway, ready to head out, “Sooner or later it must work. This love thing feels it will triumph. Help us get through”.  
  
“Paul”, Hugh sighs worriedly, “are you sure you should be going out in this state?”  
  
Mushroom is high as Borders mountains, after all, isn’t he? Hugh sure seems to think like so, judging from the man’s concerned expression.  
  
It’s better perhaps to let him think so too. And who knows, maybe the man is right. Paul isn’t quite sure himself anymore. Maybe this **is** all only a wacky mushroom induced dream. That would be a fucking relief.  
  
Paul just wants this limbo to be over already. It’s getting increasingly disorienting, too surreal to handle. And it keeps ending in misery.  
  
But what if it **is** real? How will the future play out, if he manages to set the course onward from this particular loop? Or any one of them? Will things go back to how they were before any of these rounds, or will his choice of turn determine the course they’ll take - dictate future events? It’s seems an enormous responsibility for one man to take on.  
  
He probably shouldn’t be bothering himself with such a question. Just focus on now. What ever that is anymore. Use what’s available to him, and make sure everyone is alive during the loop he’s about to roll onward from. Just in case. Even just one death, and it’ll be on him, if that reality stays.  
  
“I’ll be just a minute”, Paul sighs, looking back at Hugh with such longing in his eyes, taking in the sight like this is the last he’ll ever see the man. Perhaps it is. It likely is. Again.  
  
“I can’t wait for this day to be over, so I can come kiss you again in the morning”, he says stepping out, hoping Hugh won’t come after him this time.  
  
He’ll set things right. Like they should be. So that all the Hughs in all the timelines will be safe from the destructive force set loose on this damned space ride.  
  
He refuses to add any more deaths to his memories of Hugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts on the work posted along with the illustration on [**tumblr**](https://jmalkki.tumblr.com/post/181695993604/polishing-badges-just-two-officers-of-the-fleet).
> 
> _Likes, shares, comments and what have you, all appreciated on:_  
>  _[ **tumblr**](http://jmalkki.tumblr.com/) | [**twitter**](https://twitter.com/Jemppu) | [**instagram**](https://www.instagram.com/jeminamalkki/) | [**DeviantArt**](https://www.deviantart.com/jemppu)_


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